


anthem of the angels

by ristaya



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ristaya/pseuds/ristaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is ending and all you can think about is how he used to look at you with fire in his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anthem of the angels

The world is ending and all you can think about is how he used to look at you with fire in his eyes.

Sometimes you wonder if it could've gone another way; if any other solution had ever been possible or if you'd always been fated to lose everything you've been fighting for. Destined to perish like the brash, demanding soul of the man you once held in your hands, so very beautiful among all the chaos. 

You don't see him often, not really. Granted, he's always there, the fearless leader you've come to loathe for he's no longer the man you still love so very fiercely, and yet you follow him like a moth clinging to light in spite of it burning your very skin. 

He asks for your advice, sometimes, like he trusts you, and it fools you that maybe he still remembers what used to be. Maybe he does. But even if that's the case, he's but a broken shell and you don't know what holds him together anymore. After all, there's nothing but memories to you yourself, a shadow cast in his wake.

At night he seeks out warmth you cannot give, but you still try, for these secret encounters are the only time you get to see him like this - bare, exposed. Afraid.

He keeps a facade for the rest of the people he's supposed to be leading even though there's no winning here. You know, though, and the knowledge is soaring in your mind, a sick sense of pride over the fact you've come to know him so very closely, so intimately - sometimes you think you know him better than yourself. The feeling is better than any narcotic you've ever found in this godforsaken wasteland.

You don't blame him for what he did to you. You wish you could, but that's impossible. Somehow, that's the one thing you'd never been capable of, you suspect, as he mumbles drunken, half-conscious apologies into your skin, hands gripping you tight like you're a lifeboat.

How can you pull him out of the madness if you're drowning in it, too?

In the morning, he always leaves before you wake up. Of course, he's still there, but his eyes are cold and distant again, posture straight and strong as he clothes himself.

Once, it strikes you like lightning, as you look at him, that this creature appalls you. How could he not, after you've witnessed him slipping away? It must've been how he felt when his brother was walking around without a soul - watching someone you love so deeply wither, someone else taking up the space where they used to be.

No one hears you anymore. You don't know if you'd like them to, for they had never done anything to help. Except for you, that is, but nothing is holy about you anymore. You're dirt and soil, perhaps the only fundament for him to lean on. You hope so, at least. You hope he still cares enough to remember you were his friend once.

You don't pray. You never pray. No one prays anymore, not even him, not after you caught him yelling at the sky to take him and end all of this and nothing happened.

You wish it could just be over. The more days pass, the more tired you are. He must be too, and you feel sympathy towards him because of the man he used to be. You love that man so greatly it used to frighten you, but you know he hasn't found peace, drifting and anchored on earth together with you, what little has remained of him.

Perhaps neither of you will ever be forgiven. Perhaps you'll never find redemption, you think, as you cock your gun, as you follow him. This is the last mission, you know, even if he never told you; you will all die here, on the devil's grounds.

No one will sing songs about you, for there's no one around to remember anything anymore. The world your father once created is dead, its most perfect inhabitants, so vivid and brimming with life, gone. You could never have saved them, but hell, you tried. You tried to save this man walking in front of you. Perhaps there was a time, once, that he tried to save you, too.

You know that when oblivion comes for you, you will be ready.


End file.
